


a hundred years from now (dear heart)

by theundiagnosable



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), whouffle - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Multi, this didn't make things any clearer, unsure if 12 and Clara are brotp or otp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 05:02:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1141747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theundiagnosable/pseuds/theundiagnosable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Involving a telepathic circuit, a new-found love for stories, recurring nightmares, and a Doctor who just won't stay dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a hundred years from now (dear heart)

"Do you happen," he asks her, "to know how to fly this thing?"

And the TARDIS is shuddering and spluttering around her but Clara stares incredulously at the new Doctor and can't quite make sense of any of it.

Somehow (and she calls on memories of mostly ignored flying lessons and his arm around her waist and his hand guiding hers to a particular lever _)_ , the two of them manage to bring the ship to a non-crash landing, which is probably as good as it's going to get, under the circumstances.

Neither of them says anything until the ship is still and silent and Clara begins to long for the noise or the crash or _something_. This space between them feels foreign and wrong, but she can't bring herself to bridge it. He left her, twice, and turned into a new person before she could ask why – how can she close that gap?

"I don't know anything." The Doctor states matter-of-factly, and looks at her from across the console as though he isn't sure whether he's angry at himself or at her. "I don't know anything," he repeats, "except for you."

_Well_ , she thinks, _at least he's sure of something._

_That makes one of us._

______

 

Because he's still the Doctor, and because the TARDIS was followed by a Slitheen ship, they save a world that day.

This Doctor is fiercer than the last, and his words cut like knives and fly like bullets. He speaks abruptly and harshly to everyone

except her

and this is the part that she doesn't understand.

When she speaks he looks at her with rapt attention, and when he says her name he cradles the sound like it's something precious. More than anything, he is careful.

Still, she can't help but hold her breath when he's in the TARDIS without her, and only exhales when he lands and opens the doors to her. And when did this habit begin, when did she finally - God, was she slow - finally realize that she was nothing to him?

Still, she thinks that the Twelfth Doctor just might need her; so she stays (like she'd ever leave) and wishes that she was better at choosing who to love (she still pretends she doesn't need him).

Clara knows him, maybe for longer than anyone, so she watches him, throughout that first day. And yes, he is fiercer, but he is also unimaginably different, not only in how he appears or how he acts but in who he _is._

The Doctor is young, Clara realizes, younger than she's ever seen him; and she wonders what that makes her.

She catches a glimpse of the man from thousands of years ago, also at the beginning of a regeneration cycle, who stole a time machine and hoped for the best. _The navigation system's knackered,_ she remembers, _but you'll have much more fun._

She feels old.

Of course, she feels old. She feels a lot of things and knows none of them, but somehow, she finds that she still wants to know him. And because of this, and because he's the Doctor, she stays on the TARDIS that night so he won't be lonely (this is what she tells herself, at least). When she leaves to go to bed, he is exploring the library and commenting on the excess of fairy tales.

While she walks down the hall, the TARDIS buzzes questioningly, and Clara runs a hand along the wall carefully. "I miss him." She whispers, feeling somewhat ridiculous, but then the TARDIS hums and she'd swear that it's the sound of pure loss. They stay like that ( _she_ stays like that) for a long minute, and then the door to her room appears down the hall, exponentially shortening her trip.

"Thank you." she murmurs, before entering the room and finding the Eleventh Doctor sitting on her bed.

______

 

An Interesting Question: Who does she love? The Doctor, obviously – she's not delusional enough to deny that – but how? The one she fell in love with is the Eleventh, obviously. He's gone now. But the Doctor isn't. Does this mean that she still loves the man she sees in front of her?

It's a curious phenomenon, loving someone who can be two men at once.

_____

 

"What are you?" she gasps, without leaving the doorway; and she's surprisingly calm, given that she's just come face to face with someone who very recently died in front of her.

The Eleventh Doctor shrugs. "Believe me when I say that you probably know the answer better than I do."

She doesn't know what to say, so she pretends that it's really him. "I'm mad at you, d'you know that?"

He half-smiles. "Sort of expected it, yeah."

"I stood there," Clara says, "before you regenerated, and watched you speak to someone who wasn't even there. Your imaginary friend got more of a goodbye than me."

"There's a certain amount of irony in that statement, given that you're currently speaking to someone who isn't actually here."

and she looks at him and isn't quite sure which one of them is the imaginary friend anymore

"What are you?" she asks again. Then, "You're dead."

"I've been dead loads of times. It's never stopped me before."

Clara perches on the edge of her bed, a safe distance away from him. "I'm losing my mind," she sighs.

He nods. "Very probably."

And all at once, she is entirely, overwhelmingly exhausted. She knows that he's lived centuries in a very short amount of time, and can't help but feel the same. Looking at him, now, it is too easy to believe that none of the past days happened, that they are the Doctor and Clara, same as they've been for as long as she can remember. Her head hurts, a dull ache that she knows should probably be treated, could she bring herself to care. She doesn't (can't), though, and so she crawls under the covers and tries to close her eyes.

She pretends that he's stroking her hair, like before, and almost convinces herself that, yes, she can feel his hand on her head, comforting and repetitive. Then she opens her eyes, and he is unmoved, sitting where he was sitting before.

"Why are you here?" she whispers faintly, and he looks at her (and she doesn't think that she'll ever stop being amazed at how someone so ancient can look so young)

"When I reached for you," he answers, mirroring her tone, "before I regenerated, it was the last thing I did. Now... you've been caught in the TARDIS' telepathic circuit. It preserves and reflects reoccurring memories, people, like... imaginary friends."

"Which means..."

"Which means," his eyes meet hers, "that I'm still reaching."

And what did she expect from him, she thinks, if not this? When has he ever known how to stop reaching? _("tell me you'll never send me away ever again")_ And he's supposed to be dead, he _is_ dead, and the sensible part of Clara knows that the Eleventh Doctor is out of her reach forever

but the other part of her, the part that ran away with him and asked to see the stars, that part clings to the image of the man beside her; begging him to stay and forgetting everything else.

and the alarming strength of that delusion is how she makes herself say "Then stop. Leave. Stop reaching."

He smiles sadly. "Even if I did, impossible girl, I'd still be here."

"Why?" she breathes, and her breath shudders around the word.

"Because you're reaching too."

When she sleeps that night, Clara dreams of daleks and nothingness and subtracting love and then has a nightmare where she's human again.

_____

 

And when she wakes, she is curled into his side with the tracks of tears etched on her face, and the Doctor is lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. She reaches a tentative hand toward his face, but instead of cupping his cheek, her hand passes through his image like nothing (so he really is a ghost). His face falls, but not as if he's surprised. Clara contemplates crying (and it's strange, that this smallest of losses should set her off, after everything), but finds that her tears have been spent.

He leans into her grasp, futile as it is, like she can bring him back through sheer force of will.

"Who are you," she asks, voice thick with the last tendrils of sleep, and this time he answers.

"A memory."

"My memory," she clarifies, and he nods, though it wasn't a question.

"The telepathic circuit took your memory, preserved and expanded it. The interface takes on the form of the memory, basically creating a copy of this important thing. I saw Amelia while I died, and you're seeing me after."

Clara ignores the sting of hurt that follows his nonchalant remark, and looks at him cautiously. "So... you definitely aren't real."

"Not even a little," he agrees almost cheerfully, "but if it helps, I _feel_ quite real, so there's that."

And she's not sure why she still trusts him, this not-quite-Doctor that sits beside her and smiles tentatively, like he's trying to fit back into the gaping hole he left behind.

And has it really only been days, that she's lived without him?

She makes herself leave her bed and pull on a sweater, padding down the hall in her stocking feet. Eventually, she finds herself at the library, and the Twelfth Doctor has not left. He sits in an armchair by the fire, stacks of books around him like a fortress. In his lap is an intricately bound, vaguely familiar volume.

"Doctor," she says, and his head snaps up, eyes darting around the room. Saying the name feels, all at once, like letting out a breath that they'd both been holding without knowing it.

"Clara." He meets her eyes and nods awkwardly, clambering to his feet. Then he smiles, and does nothing else.

Under normal circumstances, she wouldn't have a problem with this, but he appears to entirely miss his past self walking in front of him and sitting on the arm of his chair.

"Did you-" "Can you-" They speak at the same time, then stop, and laugh nervously.

"How are you getting on?" she blurts, and his eyes widen.

"Fine, mostly - no more spinning and sliding, though, I'll tell you; this bloody body's gone old on me."

Clara can't help but giggle at this furious Scottish man disguised as her doctor, and this seems to further break the tension.

He speaks, visibly more relaxed. "Were you going to say something?"

_Just that your old self and I have been talking all morning._ She nods, and gestures to the Eleventh Doctor, who's been oddly silent. "You're..." She trails off.

The Twelfth Doctor follows her gaze. Clara braces herself for the disbelief and shock. Nothing happens. The Doctor waits for her to finish her sentence, and when she doesn't continue, he raises his eyebrows pointedly.

"I'm..." he prompts, and she stares at his eleventh self.

Invisible, she thinks. Of course he'd have to be invisible.

Since when has Clara Oswald's sanity meant anything to him?

The Eleventh Doctor's lips quirk upwards in a smile (like he knows what she's thinking); she manages, with much difficulty, to tear her eyes away and meet the curious gaze of the Twelfth.

"You," she says slowly, "haven't properly met me yet."

He smirks dryly. "I think we got past introductions when you tossed yourself into my time stream."

"Shut up," she laughs, and holds her hand out, bridging the gap between them. "I'm Clara," she says, "hello."

He almost rolls his eyes, infinitely juvenile alien, but takes her hand in his own. "Clara. I'm the Doctor." He throws in a mock bow, and she shakes her head fondly.

He holds her hand for one more long moment, and she's hyperaware of the almost-Eleventh-Doctor sitting behind them like an angel on a tombstone. Then he lets go, and meets her eyes.

"Hello," says the Doctor.

_____

 

Clara Oswald has lived more lives than she can remember. Not neatly, like the Doctor does, one after the other - no, her lives have overlapped and crossed each other, fighting for dominance in her mind. It's a constant struggle in her head, to remember that, yes, she _is_ the real Clara.

Multiple lives are nothing new to her.

Perhaps because of this, somehow, over the days and weeks that follow, she reconciles the situation she finds herself in until it becomes completely normal. Of course she's traveling with the Twelfth Doctor, getting to know him and being surprised along the way. She hadn't thought anything about the man could shock her, not anymore.

Then he, for all his blustering and swearing and incomprehensible accent, is remarkably kind but horrible at showing it to anyone except her. Then the TARDIS isn't such an old cow anymore, seeming to see Clara as an artifact of her previous pilot (and Clara has to admit that it's nice to have a bit of female companionship, even if said female is a time machine). Then her and the Doctor sit in the library and read together, not saying anything, and she almost feels happy again.

And before she can catch herself, he's surprised her all over again.

So of course she's traveling with the Twelfth Doctor.

And of course she's doing so while talking to his dead, older self. Everywhere she goes inside the ship, The Eleventh Doctor is there. He's invisible to everyone else, but at times, it feels like he's all that she can see.

_I'm still reaching_ , he'd said, and she wonders if he'll ever stop while, in the same thought, praying he never will.

It's more of a challenge than she'd expected, moving on from someone who never left.

Multiple lives are nothing new to her.

She thinks that this one might be.

_____

 

Maybe the term challenge is an understatement.

"That," she says, "was the most supremely idiotic thing that you or anyone else has ever done-"

"I get it." The Twelfth Doctor interrupts, rolling his eyes. He resembles, for a moment, Angie Maitland during one of her daily attitude sessions.

Clara isn't willing to listen, not now. "Oh, I'm not finished!"

"By all means, continue."

"The most idiotic thing you or anyone else has ever done in the entire history of time and space and anything else you could dream up in that _impossibly_ thick head of yours. How did you delude yourself into thinking that that was a good idea in any way?"

"You almost died!" he argues incredulously.

"So did you, marching into a room of outer space elephant heads-"

"The politically correct term is-"

"-and trying to break me out of a jail cell _during a stampede_."

He crosses his arms defiantly. "I'd do it again."

Clara groans. "Were you always this infuriating?" She's interrupted by a shrill whistling sound from the kitchen – the kettle's boiled - and looks at him with a stern huff; temporarily halting her tirade. "Get the tea, please."

He nods at once, almost meekly. "Alright."

"I'm still not okay with you trying to play hero."

"Yes, ma'am."

She laughs, in spite of herself.

_____

 

Sometimes, if she's tired, she forgets which Doctor she's talking to; or responds to one instead of the other. This has a tendency to create somewhat awkward situations, given that one of the Doctors hears her thoughts and the other has no idea what she's thinking until she responds to something he hasn't said.

Funny, how the same man can be so different and so recognizable all at once.

_“You_ ,” she'd said as he regenerated, “ _you're the Doctor.”_

She forgets who 'you' is, sometimes.

_____

 

“I can feel your heartbeat,” the ghost of the Eleventh Doctor says, staring at something she can't quite pinpoint. He sounds surprised, and Clara can't help but smile at the look on his face, like he's discovered a new galaxy.

“Hey,” she says, trying to catch his attention, and he looks up and meets her eyes, wonderment still evident on his face. She asks, “What do you mean?”

“Here-” He nods to her arm, splayed out over the space between them on her bed. His fingers rest on her wrist (she hadn't noticed), right where the pale blue of her veins become visible. She copies him, and after closing her eyes to focus, Clara feels the steady thrum of blood and life from her heart.

She opens her eyes, and is surprised to see him with a brilliant smile on his face. “What is it?” She prompts, and he shrugs, unabashed.

“I didn't think I'd ever feel a piece of you again. It feels like you're really here.”

Clara laughs. “I _am_ really here, chin boy. It's you that I'm not sure about.” He doesn't answer, dancing his fingers along the curve of her wrist. Her skin aches for him, and the pulse pounds faster and yes, she thinks, she can see how this heartbeat can transcend memories.

He says, without moving, “I would have missed you, Clara. A lot.”

_I do miss you,_ she wants to whisper, but doesn't, forcing herself away from that train of thought. “Well,” she says, “you don't have to.”

_____

 

One day, after they narrowly escape a cathedral full of weeping angels (and really, do they ever escape any other way?), Clara throws her arms around the Doctor's neck, hugging him close. He catches his balance and holds her for a moment, before disentangling himself and looking down at her.

"What was that for?" He asks. This Doctor is not as physical as the last, every action measured and careful.

Clara shrugs, fighting a smile. "Dunno."

She grabs his hand, ignoring his disgruntled "hey!", and pulls him into the TARDIS.

The echo of the Eleventh Doctor is examining the new console room, but looks up as they re-enter the ship. He looks at her like she's the sun and stars (every last one of them), and she stops in her tracks.

That night, she dreams of snow and falling and _will you come away with me_.

And even in her dreams, she always says yes.

_____

 

Clara does not realize, yet, but this (when she sees the Eleventh Doctor and feels, just for a second, like he does not belong) is the moment when everything is not perfect.

It only gets less perfect from there, as tends to happen.

She hasn't realized this yet, of course. Not quite.

It'll come.

_____

 

The slight movement of her feet in the water creates rings throughout the swimming pool, and Clara watches as they expand and disappear. In the middle of the pool, supremely unaffected, the Eleventh Doctor floats on his back. _Does it still count as floating if it's impossible to drown,_ Clara wonders aimlessly.

"Clara." He says her name, and she looks up, alert. He stares upward, hands behind his head. "I like how it sounds, your name. So wonderfully human."

"Doctor," she tests, trying to pinpoint what exactly makes something sound human.

"When you say it," he says, "you hold it like it's my name. Like it's really me."

"Because it is." He looks at her, after she says that, and it's like he's studying her, memorizing her, seeing something that he somehow hasn't before. She can't quite figure out why, but this bothers her. Hasn't he realized, yet, that he has lived up to his chosen name a thousand times over? She looks at him and sees the Doctor, every piece of him. She wonders what he sees. What he saw, when he wasn't just a prolonged game of pretend.

After a while, he talks again. "It's an old name, Clara is."

"Oh?" she asks tiredly.

He doesn't notice. "Yep. Old as anything." She wants to laugh at how right he is, probably unintentionally.

"Clara," he says again, then over and over, letting himself sink to the bottom of the pool. She still hears him. "Clara, Clara, Clara..."

She closes her eyes and thinks that this must be what drowning feels like.

"Clara, Clara, Clara..."It's like a death sentence, his voice; and she doesn't think she'll ever stop running to it.

_____

 

One evening, when her and the Doctor (and the Doctor) sit in the library, Clara reads about ghosts and haunting and unfinished business. And it's the last idea that strikes a chord within her, and without a word she puts the book down because if there's anything that they are, her and the Eleventh Doctor, it is that: Unfinished.

The Twelfth Doctor looks at her and tilts his head, silently asking if she is alright .

“Read to me,” Clara says, nodding to the book in his hands.

He does.

_____

 

An Observation: It is infinitely easier to speak with someone else's words.

_____

 

He reads the stories like they are true, and she lets the words wash over her.

“ _“_ _And I saw a little girl, her eyes tightly closed, holding to her breast the old kind world, one that she knew in her heart could not remain, and she was holding it and pleading, never to let her go. That is what I saw. It wasn't really you, what you were doing, I know that. But I saw you and it broke my heart. And I've never forgotten._ It's not Wednesday," the Twelfth Doctor says, abruptly ceasing his reading. Clara is looks up, startled by the change of pace, pausing midway through stirring her tea.

She grins bemusedly. "In terms of utter redundancy, this is right up there with the kidney comment."

He frowns, adding furrows to the wrinkles in his forehead. "You never used to stay past Wednesday. Now you don't leave the TARDIS anymore."

Clara shrugs. "I've got to keep an eye on you, haven't I?"

"Keep an eye on me," he echoes skeptically. The Eleventh Doctor walks behind him and pulls a face. Clara ignores him.

"Someone's got to do it." She takes a sip of her tea, then raises an eyebrow. "Trying to get rid of me, then?"

Both Doctors speak at the same time. "Never." Then the Twelfth speaks alone. "I promise-"

"Don't." Clara says.

She has loved the Doctor for much too long, and if this has taught her one thing it is that his promises mean next to nothing.

He looks hurt by her statement, both of him. Where the current Doctor looks confused, though, the Eleventh looks her straight on with recognition and comprehension and the barest hint of guilt.

"Please," he says, "please, try to understand..."

"You're impossible" she says out loud, then claps a hand over her mouth. The Twelfth Doctor narrows his eyes, unsure what she means and assuming that she speaks to him (which, in a way, she supposes that she does).

“Are you alri-” Not letting him finish, Clara rises from her seat, setting her tea down on the side table.

"I need a walk," she says as explanation, and exits the room.

"Don't we all," says the Eleventh Doctor, strolling along beside her, and she gives up on clearing her head.

_____

 

And it's odd - with his new fondness for the library and her extra time on the TARDIS and _his_ presence in the middle of the night, Clara finds herself spending more time with the dead Doctor than the live one.

She thinks it might be eating her alive.

Funny - she's never been one for self-inflicted pain.

_____

 

Something she realizes from living on the TARDIS: They never stop moving. At any given moment, in the deadest part of night or barest light of dawn, they are spiraling through the cosmos; constantly in motion, constantly running.

She shouldn't be surprised.

_____

 

"Was I ever," she asks, "someone of any importance to you?"

The Eleventh Doctor almost sighs the words. "My Clara. Don't you know?" He moves as if to take her hand, but of course, can't touch her. It is, she believes, one of the cruelest little things to deprive them of, touch. She can hardly remember a moment, when reflecting on their brief time together, where they hadn't been joined one way or another. If she concentrates, Clara can almost bring to mind the sensation of his hand in hers, one that she never got used to, regardless of how habitual it became.

She finally answers him. "I thought I did. Once." He has the grace to look ashamed. "Why didn't you let me stay on Trenzalore, Doctor?"

He doesn't speak for a long moment. “It doesn't matter anymore.”

“That's not an answer.”

“I know.” His voice rings with finality, and Clara knows that he'll say no more on the subject.

In his own way, his own exceptionally s _tupid_ way, he'd been trying to protect her, she knows that. Appreciates it, in some docile part of her mind.

But he'd lied. Blatantly, and to her face.

The worst part?

She would have happily stayed, happily grown old, died in bliss with a smile on her face just for the sight of him.

For a minute, Clara says nothing. "You're a selfish old man, chin boy."

He chuckles humourlessly. "That sentence is a paradox."

_Get used to it._

"Impossible." The Doctor ventures a smile, playfully, innocently. (had there really been a time when she thought he did anything innocently?)

Half-heartedly, she pokes at him in her mind. _Get out of my head_ , she thinks weakly.

He doesn't.

_____

 

A stray thought: If the Doctor only exists in her mind, because of this telepathic thingamabob, how long can she keep him there?

Another thought: She'd rather not think about this, and that scares her.

______

 

"You aren't sleeping."

"Neither are you." Clara replies without really listening, and the Twelfth Doctor sighs, exasperated. He reaches across the kitchen counter, pulling the whisk from her hands and meeting her gaze. He looks concerned, and that is what makes her listen.

"You know as well as I do that it's different. You've got bags under your eyes, damn it!"

Clara leans across the counter and curtly pulls the whisk from his grasp. "It's not nice to point out flaws in a lady's appearance." She deliberately keeps her tone light, but he is more perceptive than before and clearly recognizes that she avoids his gaze (because, admittedly, mixing cake batter only requires so much focus).

"What can I do?" he asks, and for a second he looks so earnest that she has to blink to remember that he is not his past self. She almost feels guilty, at moments like this; when he tries so hard and she wishes it was that easy but can't quite let herself forget...

He isn't like this with anyone, she knows, and probably never will be. She is, to him, the exception. It's an odd feeling, and one that Clara isn't entirely accustomed to yet.

And was it truly ever a question that she'd trust this twelfth Doctor completely? Because despite everything, despite him becoming the total opposite of who he'd been for her, she finds herself clinging to him like a lifeline

and now he is doing the same

"When wasn't I?" asks the Eleventh Doctor.

_Clara Oswald,_ she thinks without emotion, _I will never send you away again._

"Oh," he says. "Oh."

______

 

Later, when Clara pulls the covers up to her chin and tries to sleep, the Eleventh Doctor perches on the edge of her bed. “He dotes on you, this Doctor,” the memory of the Doctor says contemplatively.

“Does he?”

“Yes. The look on his face, like he's waiting for the chance to either save your life or fetch you a jammy dodger.” There he pauses, and looks down at her sadly. “If things were different...” He shakes his head slightly, as if awaking himself from a dream. “Did I ever look at you, like he does?”

Clara blinks tiredly, shifting the pillow under her head. “You looked at me like you were suffocating and I was air for you to breathe.” And he was a dying old man, she realizes, long before three hundred years of Christmas.

Minutes pass before she speaks again. Sleep is seeming less appealing, now – the nightmares have been getting worse. She should probably be used to them, by now.

She looks at him, almost sadly. “How can you both be the Doctor? I look at the two of you, and I try to tell myself that it's him who's real, but you... you're still here. And how can I know, when both of you are still him? What does that make you?”

“Sometimes,” the Eleventh Doctor says, “I think we'll never stop losing each other, one way or another.”

“Sometimes,” Clara says, “I think we'll never stop finding each other.”

And does there come a point, she wonders, where it's easier to just stay lost?

_____

 

They visit a planet, one day, with a bustling marketplace that stirs memories of Akhaten. This place is populated by humans – at least, they look human – loudly advertising their wares and services. Clara spots signs for everything from fruit vendors to psychics, and a million more in languages that she can't begin to understand. Still, even at first sight, the place is instinctively familiar. It's a comforting testament to the fact that, even across galaxies and millennia, some things never change.

They step off of the TARDIS and the Doctor laughs at the look of amazement on Clara's face. “I came here a few bodies ago with Donna.”

Clara frowns, trying to recall what she's heard about the previous companion. “Donna... red hair, right?” He nods, and she laughs. “I knew you liked gingers, but _another_ redhead-”

“Don't rub it in!” He protests, tousling his silver hair. “Besides, it wasn't like that with her. She was a friend, Donna. Mind you, she did act a bit strange last time we came here...”

“Are you sure it wasn't just the company rubbing off on her?” Clara quips, and before he can retort, she takes a few steps more into the marketplace. “Come on then, let's explore!” She turns to face the Doctor, and he offers his arm gallantly. (This Doctor seems to observe older formalities. She sort of enjoys it.) She takes it; and for a while, they stroll among the different stalls and curtained tents, pointing out particularly colourful displays. All the while, shopkeepers and merchants call out to them, offering one-time deals and today only special prices. (and this time, no one asks her to pay in memories. Shame – she'd be more than happy to give some away)

And then

“This one, she dwells with the dead.”

Clara whips around, trying to locate the speaker. Eyes lighting up at the acknowledgment, a hunched old woman beckons to her with nails like claws. “You. You speak to them. Come – I know these things. I see. I will show you.” Ignoring the Doctor's warning hand on her shoulder, Clara approaches the woman. He follows closely.

“Who are you?”

The woman does not answer, instead taking Clara's small hand in her own gnarled ones. “It follows you, you know. Like a shadow. Between worlds, this one.”

Fighting the shivers that suddenly crawl down her back, Clara shakes her head, trying to reason with the woman. “I'm from Earth, is that what you mean? 'Between worlds', like I'm not from here?”

“The living and the dead can not mix. Once gone, they fade, like our memories do, or we fade with them.” The woman continues as though Clara hasn't spoken, and looks at her with an understanding that is much too pitying to be comfortable. “Have you faded yet, little one?”

Clara yanks her hand out of the woman's suddenly vise-like grip, and barely notices when the Doctor starts berating the woman, asking what she said to offend Clara so. He positions himself between her and the woman, like she's a threat.

_Poor Doctor,_ thinks Clara, _doesn't know that the threat's right back on his ship, entirely invisible._

But that can't be right, she tells herself. You can't love a threat.

The Doctor puts a hand on her back, ushering her away and muttering profanities under his breath. Clara looks back, and the old woman is stretching out her hand as if to grab her.

“Soon,” she says, “so soon, little one. She dwells with the dead.”

_____

 

They sit cross legged on the floor of her room, and Clara has a momentary urge to laugh. It sort of feels like they're in a bad horror movie, about to communicate with ghosts while the audience covers their eyes and tells them not to. She looks at the Eleventh Doctor in front of her.

Like ghosts are anything new.

"Ready?" she asks, and he nods. He looks mildly amused by all of this, but went along willingly enough when she suggested it. Clara takes a deep breath. "Alright. Well, let's..." She falters, unsure of the proper way of going about this kind of thing. Screw it. "Just concentrate. Focus on not reaching."

"Got it."

Clara looks at him sternly, then shifts where she sits and closes her eyes because it seems like a seance-y kind of thing to do. _Right,_ she tells herself, _you heard me. Stop reaching._ She waits a second, but nothing happens. Alright, so talking to herself isn't going to work. Instead she tries to call to mind the image of their hands, and imagines herself pulling away. The picture looks strange in her mind.

_Stop reaching. Stop reaching._

She opens one eye, and sees him looking at her.

"You aren't focusing! You can't stop reaching if you can't focus!"

"I am!" He protests, "I'm the most focused person I know. King of focus, me. They should call me Mr. Focus-On-Stop-Reaching. Really."

Clara purses her lips. "You're not even thinking it, are you." It is not a question.

The Eleventh Doctor fidgets guiltily. "That's one way of looking at it."

If she could touch him, she'd hit him. "Have you even attempted to stop reaching?"

"'Course I have. You're seriously overestimating how much fun it is being in your head."

With an exasperated sigh, Clara lets herself fall back, hair splayed on the ground around her. She puts her hands over her eyes and breathes deeply. She can feel his gaze on her, but does nothing to acknowledge his presence.

_Stop reaching. Stop reaching._

"I wish I wasn't the Doctor," he says abruptly.

Clara shakes her head, speaking almost before he's finished. "Don't say that."

"It's true." He smiles wistfully. "It's like I'm a piece of someone else. _The Doctor_. This great big name, across centuries and galaxies. No one tells you that once you're gone, once your turn is over, the new man takes all that with him. And you're left as this... as this." He gestures to himself mockingly. "I shouldn't exist. But I do. And I spend my days speaking to you, continuing a life that should have been over a long time ago."

Clara stares blankly.

And then she smiles. There is no mirth in the movement, just a bitter sort of realization.

_I shouldn't exist._

_But I do._

"What," she asks, "does that make me?"

And, she thinks, if they don't find a way to stop reaching, what will they be? Even as the thought crosses her mind, it sounds impossible. How can you stop reaching for the one thing you've wanted more than anything for longer than anything else? Across time and space, across dimensions, they've reached for each other.

And now she has, somehow, to let go.

_Stop reaching. Stop reaching._

_____

 

She walks past the library without entering, without even pausing. Inside, the Doctor is bent over a book, the lamp at his side creating a ring of light in the otherwise pitch-black library. The light disappears as she walks past, footsteps echoing along the empty hallway. She shivers. The TARDIS buzzes questioningly, and Clara understands what she says. (and oh, how things have changed) On a whim, she sits down, leaning against the curved wall.

"It's odd that he reads so many books," she ventures conversationally. "As though he doesn't know enough stories."

She thinks the TARDIS would laugh, were she sitting beside Clara.

"Sorry for calling you a cow," Clara sighs, lightly patting the floor next to her. "I don't think you are one, really." She guesses that the ship accepts, because the air around her warms almost immediately, enfolding her like a blanket. It's strange, the sudden rush of friendship she feels, and tinged with something that she identifies all too easily.

"You're lonely," Clara realizes. "You miss him." The TARDIS hums morosely, and Clara smiles sadly. The Twelfth Doctor knows his ship instinctively, but to this day, still asks what this button or that lever does. He doesn't dance around the console, doesn't nickname his ship aside from the occasional 'old girl'. "He still loves you, of course. It's just new for him." Her words are empty, and she recognizes this. She leans her head back against the cool metal and lets the silence wash over her.

She'd forgotten what quiet was like, the sound of her own breathing and no one else's.

It feels how she thinks peace does.

"Your telepathic circuit," Clara says, "is projecting my last memory of the Doctor everywhere I go inside the ship. He said... He said it's because our last action was reaching for each other, and in a way, both of us still are. " She lowers her voice. "Everywhere I go," she almost whispers, "he's there. And he's in my head. And I know he's not the Doctor but I feel like he is and I think I might be going crazy."

She stares at the curve of the wall, barely audible. "So, I just wanted to say that, if you can... you could stop. Because he's gone, and every second that I let myself pretend otherwise...” And very suddenly, she is breathless. It sounds like a betrayal, even to her, and she has to fight every impulse in her body to gasp the next words. "If you could make the memory go away. Let him go. If you could do anything at all-”

From across the hall, the Eleventh Doctor smiles, as if he hasn't heard anything. "I knew you two would get along someday." He always has been good at deluding himself.

"Please," she says again, like she has any hope of an answer. And she swears that, in this moment, she can feel the TARDIS' confusion - and she was right, then, despite her hopes: the Doctor truly is invisible to everyone and everything else. Clara sits up straight, and the air feels cold again. She looks at the memory of the Doctor, and he crosses the hall to kneel in front of her. She wishes he could hold her like he used to, like he'd never let go.

"My Clara," he says gently, "why are you crying?"

_I love you,_ she thinks, _but you're just in my head. You aren't anything, anymore._

And he's right, look at that; she's crying after all.

______

 

"I loved you more than anything," he tells her from the foot of the bed.

Clara smiles. "You honestly believe that, don't you?"

She stretches out, letting her fingers ghost across his chest, imagining there's something underneath. The Eleventh Doctor is obviously troubled by her response. _Go away_ , she thinks half-heartedly, and he drops her gaze, looking at her hand where his hearts would be.

"I made a bargain with the universe," he sighs, "that I just wanted you. That was all I asked."

She stares at the ceiling. "It worked, didn't it?"

"It's strange," he continues, as if she hasn't spoken, "none of it feels real. Me and you, I mean. I've got these memories, so vivid and absorbing but it's like they were never quite real. Like you were never quite real, to me."

"Says the sentient figment of my imagination."

He laughs reluctantly, and Clara can't help but join in. And it's like nothing has changed at all, it's still Clara and the mad Doctor, laughing at nothing.

And the Twelfth Doctor walks past her room and pauses in the doorway, looking remarkably confused at the sight of his companion - _associate,_ she thinks, that's what he'd called her, and the thought makes her laugh harder - laughing almost hysterically, alone on the bed. She finds the expression on his face to be the most confused she's ever seen, and she thinks she's finally gone 'round the bend.

______

 

Clara looks in the mirror one morning, and is shocked to find that she can see her ribs. Not since her mother's death have they been so prominent. She traces her fingers over the protruding bones, then turns her wrist over in the light. She looks like a skeleton, and thinks that scattered throughout time and space are enough of Clara Oswald's skeletons to fill the catacombs a hundred times.

With a kind of horrified fascination, she presses her hand against the glass of the mirror and looks at her bones. "I look dead," she breathes.

"Beautiful," says the dead man beside her, holding his hand over hers. "Always beautiful."

______

 

nothing feels quite real, anymore; like she's living halfway between life and death. Clara, the space ship, the young and old doctor, and the ghost on her shoulder

sounds like a bad sitcom

______

 

"Do you ever wonder what would happen if things were different?" she asks contemplatively.

"Quite frequently," responds the Eleventh Doctor.

"Different how?" responds the Twelfth from his armchair across from hers. He looks at her, now, like she's sick - no, like he wants desperately to make her un-sick, if such a thing were possible. It's almost endearing.

Clara shrugs, and closes the book that hasn't quite succeeded in catching her interest. "Different like we weren't us. Like... you weren't a Time Lord and we only had one first meeting and Wednesdays meant a boring walk in the park. Like neither of us has died multiple times."

"You mean I could only die once?" he deadpans, "Where's the fun in that?"

"You're right. Much too easy." She relents, half-smiles, and he grins back before looking back down at his book. Clara stares a moment longer, then averts her gaze and watches the flames flickering, casting elongated shadows over the edge of the fireplace and across the floor.

"Yes." says the Twelfth Doctor, and Clara narrows her eyes, confused.

"Yes what?"

He does not look up. "Yes, I wonder what would happen if things were different." She doesn't respond, and he continues gruffly. "If it's any help, I think you would have been happy together. You and him."

_You are him,_ she wants to scream, _you're both still the Doctor and that's what makes this so bloody impossible. You are him._

"No," says the Eleventh Doctor in her head, "no, I'm not."

She wonders, not for the first time, if this is how it will always be.

______

 

"To you," he ponders one night, "I am a ghost."

"Yes." she says, and neither says more after that.

______

 

This is when everything goes to hell:

(or at least when she notices it)

She dreams of orange skies and citadels and _take this one instead_

but it doesn't stop there

it goes on and on and as she sleeps, she feels herself regenerate and feels the years fly by and then the orange skies are full of fire and the citadels are crumbling around her and she tells herself, in a vaguely aware part of her mind, that Gallifrey Falls No More and the planet is safe and frozen

but she still dies

of course she still dies

she catches the faintest glimpse of him, as she lays dying. He faces away from her and fires a gun at a wall (and for a reason that evades her, she imagines that he wears a bow tie)

no more orange skies

_take this one instead_

And Clara sits bolt upright with a strangled scream. Her shoulders heave as she struggles to find breath, and her hands scramble over the covers, bunching the fabric together in clenched fists that don't quite manage to anchor her. She almost calls out for the Doctor, but he is far from her (when isn't he?)

And then, what did she expect, _he_ is in front of her, kneeling toward her and offering apologies and condolences, "It's alright, Clara, I'm here, you're alright, it was only a dream-"

"It wasn't," she chokes out, "It isn't."

And, seemingly without thought, the Eleventh Doctor reaches for her, moving to pull her close

and he goes right through her (he can't comfort her, anymore)

and she thinks she sees him crumple, like he'd forgotten

"It was only a dream," he says, and she is shaking her head and willing herself not to hear his words and not to hear anything anymore.

"You aren't real," she says, dazed as if still asleep. "You did this, and you aren't even real. Why are you here if you aren't real?"

and Clara Oswald does not need people, she knows that for a fact; and when she looks at this almost-man who breaks her habits even after he's dead and gone, she feels like hitting him.

Her lip trembles, and she feels her eyes well up with tears; she climbs out of bed, only half aware of what she's doing. “We're pretending like everything's the same as it's always been, and I try to stop but _you're still there._ I can't pretend, I can't. It feels like it's killing m-”

"It's alright, my Clara-"

"It's not alright!" She shouts, and he opens his mouth to speak but she doesn't let him. "You're not here, you haven't been for months and months. And I could have lived with that, I think I could have, if you would let me."

"I can't..."

He looks so helpless, in that moment, that she feels a burning wave of anger in her chest. _I hate you_ , thinks Clara, and it brings her such vindictive pleasure that she says it out loud, "I hate you." She looks surprised.

He doesn't.

“I know.” Then, seeming to shake himself out of it (but it's like a light's gone out in his eyes), he holds out a careful hand toward her, "Clara-"

"You aren't real!" She cries, and collapses against the wall, sinking to the ground. "You aren't real." she sobs again, and buries her face in her hands. She has never been one to hide from her problems, Clara Oswald, but she does now, trying to block out the noise and the sight and everything

"You're not real," she says, over and over, and this was never supposed to happen to her, she was never supposed to be like the madman in his box, trapped with the people he can't stop imagining

A long time passes, and she wishes she'd never have to move because at least now she's alone.

And then, very suddenly, she feels familiar arms lift her from her crumpled position on the floor. Her sob catches in her throat, and for the smallest of seconds, she believes that the memory has become real and he's finally finished reaching; but then she catches a glimpse of gray hair and icy blue eyes and doesn't know whether to feel disappointed or relieved.

The Doctor carries her down a maze of hallways and deposits her in a large chair, which she quickly realizes is in the library. She feels him wrap a blanket around her still-shaking shoulders, and thinks that he might brush her hair off her face with more gentleness than she'd ever thought possible – before she can know for certain, though, he crouches in front of her, looking her straight in the eye.

"Right," he says, "you're going to tell me what the bloody hell is going on and who I have to hurt to make this stop because _this is not you._ "

In her mind, Clara agrees wholeheartedly; but sniffles pitifully. "I... I don't know what you're talking about."

He frowns, but the corners of his lips twitch in utter exasperation. "I am not as unobservant as you may wish to believe. You are not, and haven't been the same, not for ages."

_Not the same,_ she nods faintly, _most definitely not._

"A dream. It was just a dream."

"A bad dream?"

"I'm not entirely sure." A thought occurs to her, then: For the same man, the Doctor could not be more different. She thinks she loves that about him. Can she love one and hate another? Could she hate either, truly?

It's not fair, she thinks petulantly. And is this what happens, when you cheat death one too many times? She is almost certainly supposed to be dead – _is_ dead, in a way, in Victorian London and on Gallifrey and who knows where else. And the Eleventh Doctor, why, he's supposed to be gone to whatever afterlife awaits regenerations that have outlived their day. Both of them shouldn't be here. And yet, here they are.

_“Have you faded yet, little one,”_ asked the old woman at the marketplace, and then, Clara remembers, she'd reached for her (that infernal reaching, again) and said “ _soon”._

And maybe, upon further thought, death is not the one being cheated.

_____

 

"Read to me," she implores, after, and The Doctor looks up from the chair in front of her, staring searchingly for some clue as to her current state. She gives him none (doesn't let herself), and so he obliges her, lifting up the nearest leather bound book; it looks, at least, to be from Earth.

He clears his throat. "It's _In a Rose Garden._ " Clara closes her eyes, and listens. "" _A hundred years from now, dear heart, We shall not mind the pain; The throbbing crimson tide of life, Will not have left a stain_."" His accent is comforting, she thinks. She likes his accent, when he doesn't sound angry.

He continues, quietly. " " _The song we sing together, dear, The dream we dream together here, Will mean no more than means a tear, Amid a summer rain._ " " He trails off, and she knows that he watches her, seeks a clue as to what prompted her tears.

She feels old; properly, exhaustingly old.

And if one life takes a toll, what do thousands do?

They sit, Clara and the Twelfth Doctor, and she pretends that the words are enough to shield them.

______

 

After that, Clara doesn't speak to the Eleventh Doctor anymore. Or he doesn't speak to her. Something like that.

She still sees him, of course – she's realized by now that it's impossible for him to leave. To his credit, however, he's making a valiant effort to stay out of her way. Wherever she goes in the TARDIS, he is there, silent as a shadow. He stands in the corner or against the wall or halfway through the doorway; as far, it seems, as it is possible for him to be from her. Clara knows that he's trying to stay out of her way. She even appreciates it. (And _look at how far they've come_ )

The Twelfth Doctor watches her closely. She doesn't talk to ghosts anymore, which has got to count for something. She speaks to him more, spends less time alone. Neither of them can fathom, then, why she's still thin and drawn, like a page ripped from one of his books.

One day, after almost two months have passed since the nightmare, she speaks to the memory of the Doctor. She isn't entirely sure what she's going to say, but it turns out not to matter – he bows his head and doesn't respond.

He becomes very good at trying not to exist.

_____

 

She knows of the poem that the Twelfth Doctor read, back in the library. Likes it, mostly.

How odd – she can't remember if it comes from this life or another.

_A hundred years from now, dear heart, the grief will all be o'er_

How odd.

_____

 

They visit his friends, Vastra and Jenny and Strax. The latter only threatens them with grenades six times before accepting the Doctor's new face, so overall, it's a success.

Through the plate glass window, Clara watches as the Doctor and Strax repeatedly sonic and scan an ominously rattling giant egg.

“Have they figured it out, yet?”

Clara turns away from the window and looks at Vastra, who sips elegantly from an ornate crystal glass. The room is humid, full of leafy plants and impossibly coloured flowers. “Not yet,” she says, taking a seat across from the green woman. “Between the two of them, I wouldn't be surprised if it ends up exploding.” They share a smile, and Clara drinks some tea for something to do, clutching the cup with both hands.

Vastra looks at her appraisingly from the other side of the table. “You've changed.”

Clara shrugs. “Last time we met, I was jumping into the Doctor's grave. A bit of change from that sounds good to me.” She attempts a smile, but Vastra shakes her head and narrows her eyes.

“You carry a new burden. What is it?”

Outside, the egg seems to be hovering above the ground as Strax and the Doctor leap about, trying to grab it. A dragonfly lands on a nearby fern, and its wings buzz, entirely monotonous. Clara watches it take a few tentative steps along the leaf before taking flight and buzzing its way out of sight.

She finally looks at Vastra, who raises her eyebrows patiently.

“You've lived a long time, haven't you?” Clara asks.

If the other woman is surprised by Clara's change of subject, she doesn't show it. “Most people would see it that way, yes.”

“How do you do it? Not,” Clara hurries to clarify, “the biological, actual living part. How do you stay ahead of the past? How do you move on?”

Vastra contemplates her answer, swirling her drink in its glass. She stares demurely at Clara. “The past is behind you, with all of its memories and pictures, hundreds of unanswered questions. At times, it seems as if it will overtake you, and you will never escape.”

“Will you?” Clara leans forward, and Vastra puts her glass down, looking her in the eyes.

“No. The past can not be forgotten, even the painful parts. You can never move on.” Clara visibly deflates, and then she thinks that Vastra smirks. “All that you can do is move ahead. The future is in front of you, and therein lie the answers to your questions.”

“What if there's no answer?” Clara pushes.

Vastra shrugs. “That may be. But, after many millennia on this planet, I have found that very often, the universe conspires to help you. You need only ask.”

Clara leans back in her chair, and exhales heavily. She meets Vastra's eyes, and sees a surprising compassion there. Biting her lip, Clara sits up straight, and opens her mouth to say-

“Clara!”

Clara and Vastra both jump, startled, and stare out of the window. The Doctor is banging frantically, his calls muffled by the thick glass.

“Grab your coat!” She manages to make out what he's saying, “There's been a slight bugger-up.” He looks over his shoulder, and his eyes widen. He ducks, and Clara flinches as a fireball singes the window frame where his head had been moments before. The scattered remains of the egg lie on the ground, and Strax is throwing grenades at what appears to be a large dragon creature. Fantastic.

Vastra looks royally annoyed. “You can't leave them alone for a second. _“Just an experiment_ ”, he said. Ha!” She fixes her skirts haughtily, pulling out a small pistol and calling for her wife, leaving Clara with the remains of tea in the jungle room.

She should probably go help. She will.

_You need only ask._ Clara ponders Vastra's words, wondering if there's any chance of them being true. A large, flat leaf chooses that precise moment to detach itself from its branch and float down, swaying over the wind like a page from a book. Clara holds her hand out and stops its slow ascent.

“You need only ask,” she muses, looking curiously at the leaf she holds. “Huh.”

______

 

The Twelfth Doctor is about to open the doors of the TARDIS, but Clara slips in front of him, blocking his entrance. He looks down, nose inches from the top of her head, and raises an eyebrow. “May I help you?”

“Yes,” she says, but doesn't elaborate. The Doctor waits, and when she still says nothing, tries to sidestep her and enter the ship. She moves with him, still in his way.

He sighs. “What have I done? If it was the dragon incident, that was entirely accident-”

“It's not,” Clara interrupts distractedly. “It's not that.”

“The judoon thing? I think that comment may have been misconstrued, I wasn't saying that _you_ looked like-”

“Doctor. Shut up for a moment.”

Something in her tone seems to get through to him, because he takes a half-step back and looks at her with a touch of concern. He tilts his head when he's concentrating. A new habit. Is this really the first time she's noticed? Clara smiles, but it flickers as she meets his eyes. He doesn't know what's going on – that much is glaringly obvious.

She looks up at him almost self consciously, and thinks of the Doctor who no longer speaks to her and the Doctor who wishes he could and _you need only ask;_ and without breaking eye contact, blurts, “Why did you send me away at Trenzalore?”

This is clearly not what he anticipated, but he answers almost immediately. “He didn't want you to die.”

It is Clara's turn to be surprised. She did not expect him to answer so quickly, without considering his answer ( _considering his lie_ , she substitutes). When she manages to regain her wits, Clara takes a step closer, jabbing his chest with her finger. “ _You_ died. How can you say-”

“He died after almost a thousand years,” the Twelfth Doctor says, “How long could you have lasted? Eighty? A hundred, at best?”

Clara shakes her head. “That's true anywhere.”

“But he wouldn't have had to watch you, anywhere. He could've imagined you the way you were for the rest of his life and mine and every Doctor after.”

“I could have saved him.” It sounds like she's convincing herself.

“At what cost?”

She hadn't considered that.

Not for ages, actually.

Could something as trivial as her life really have made him...

His eyes bore into hers, and Clara almost shivers at the intensity that never seems to abate. She looks at him, nothing quite making sense. “So... that's why?”

He nods, like he'd temporarily forgotten her original question. “Yes.”

“That's...” She doesn't finish. Can't. Finally breaking his gaze, Clara half-sits, half-falls, crouched on the TARDIS' doorstep. She exhales heavily, resting her chin in her hands. Curled up like this, she barely passes the Doctor's knee. She does not look up to see his face.

So that's why.

Things feel very quiet now.

He walks until he is standing beside her, and slowly lowers himself to sit on the doorstep beside her. She looks to him as he tries to sit comfortably on the low ground. Then he looks at her, and she looks away.

“Clara?” he asks, after a few moments.

“Hm?”

“Am I allowed to ask why you asked? About him sending you away?”

She shrugs. “I suppose.”

“So...” he prompts.

“So, I needed to know. And I thought it was about time I asked, instead of reaching for the answer like it was miles away instead of right in front of me.”

“Oh,” he says, and looks skyward a bit nervously. “Okay.” He scuffs his toes on the road in front of them, and Clara studies him. A study in contrasts, he is. He answers her questions like they're the simplest things in the universe. Like of course he's telling the truth, and of course the answer is something that incredibly easy.

Then she realizes something.

“Doctor?” she asks.

He almost smiles. “Yes?”

“You said 'he'.” He doesn't seem to comprehend her meaning, so Clara continues as the thought forms, piece by piece. “When you answered my questions. You said 'he', not 'I'. Like it wasn't you.”

She watches as he frowns, like it hadn't occurred to him to question it. “It wasn't. Well,” he amends, “it was, I guess. But not me, not with this mind. I couldn't have done that.”

“Why?” Clara breathes, and he shrugs with a small smirk.

“First face this face saw,” he says in an almost sing-song voice, and his accent makes the words sound new. “Less scared than the last. More impulsive. Don't think I could've sent you away, even if I wanted to. Don't think I ever will.”

They exchange a smile, and Clara nudges his foot with her own. After a minute, she moves to get to her feet, but the Doctor puts a hand on her arm, stopping her. He looks troubled, as if he's only just thought of something.

“He sent you away, Clara, but that doesn't mean that he didn't-”

“I know,” she interrupts, and is surprised to find that she really does. “I know he did.” Clara looks down at the Doctor, and for the first time in a long time, feels like this moment – with a Doctor whom, she realizes, she has known all along – might just be real enough for her.

The Twelfth Doctor looks at her as if trying to ensure that she knows. “More than anything,” he says. “That was how much... is how much... More than anything.”

_____

 

When they enter the TARDIS, the Eleventh Doctor is not there, and that is when she knows that something has changed.

______

 

Ignoring the startled look from the Twelfth Doctor, Clara pushes past him and out of the console room, skidding through the door before taking off down the hall at what quickly becomes a run. She glances into each room she passes, searching for him. _And always,_ she thinks, _there's the Doctor._

The door to her room appears to her left, and she barely has time to pat the wall of the TARDIS gratefully before she enters the room and sees him and her breath catches in her throat.

"I did it," she says breathlessly. "I did it, Doctor."

The Eleventh Doctor stands at the other end of the room, staring at his hand. Slowly, he moves his fingers, marveling at something that Clara can not determine. "My Clara," he says, "You really did," and sounds so amazed that, when he lifts his eyes and meets hers, her brilliant smile matches his.

She crosses the threshold, moving toward him slowly and slipping into seriousness. "I understand now, why the telepathic circuit made you appear. Because I had unfinished business. Questions. And now... I have an answer."

Now feet away from her, the Doctor grins wryly. "Do I get an answer, too?"

"Sounds fair."

His eyes flicker downward, then back to hers. When he speaks, he is almost pleading. "I asked you who I was, and you said 'The Doctor'. You always reminded me, always knew better than anyone."

She responds instantly, "Because it's true. You are the Doctor."

He stares at her imploringly, with a sort of urgency. "And what about when I'm not, anymore? What about when there's a new Doctor, and I - number eleven - am nothing but a memory? What am I then?"

_Chin Boy,_ Clara thinks, _my Chin Boy and Amelia's Raggedy Man and the Saver of Worlds, once. The only person who could have convinced me to run away and see the stars, Doctor or not._

She looks up at the man in front of her, close enough to touch, and wishes she could convey what he means to her. "You're you."

"And who's that?"

"Enough." The word leaves her lips like a leaf on the wind, and he is kissing her.

And _wow._

Her arms snake around his neck, and he pulls her into him so enthusiastically that they almost lose their balance and for a second she feels like falling

Then it occurs to her that she can touch him.

Clara pulls back, and gasps, "You're real."

"So are you" he says, and Clara can't help but laugh at the utter simplicity of his response.

She stands on her toes to press her lips to his again, and she feels him - _she feels him,_ she thinks blissfully - smiling against her. Who's been waiting for this longer, of the two of them? This kiss is chaste and over much too quickly for her liking; she leans her forehead against his and he twirls a strand of her hair in his fingers. She swears she feels butterflies in her stomach, and looks down, suddenly self conscious.

"This is so weird." Clara says, almost to herself.

He makes a face. "That's encouraging."

She giggles. "Not bad-weird," she reassures him, "good-weird. Really good." And then, oh god, she's blushing. She looks up and meets his eyes, and he smiles shyly. She feels, in that moment, like they could be anyone; just a boy and a girl

(who happen to be hovering in a galaxy that doesn't exist yet)

The Eleventh Doctor reaches for her tentatively, tilting her chin so he can look in her eyes. He drinks in her image like he will never get enough of her. "If I could," he says, "I would stay with you until forever." He lets his fingers drift over her cheek, and she closes her eyes, smiling softly and leaning into his touch. _If I could_...

"Our forevers aren't the same," she whispers, without opening her eyes.

"I know," he says, like he wishes he didn't. "I know." Clara opens her eyes, and he stares back with a wistful smile. "If things were different-"

"You'd find me anyways."

"I would." he says seriously, and she believes him.

Fighting a sudden lump in her throat, Clara traces the buttons on his shirt. The Eleventh Doctor smiles softly, and pushes the strand of her hair back behind her ear. "Be happy, Clara," he almost whispers. "Be amazing. And don't die again, not for a long time."

Despite herself, Clara chuckles. "I may need you to help me with that last one."

"He will," promises the Doctor, and Clara lets herself stay in his arms a minute longer. She breathes him in, and feels his lips press into the top of her head.

She has to force herself to disentangle her fingers from his shirt, and to take a step back from him, then another. She extends her arm, reaching for him.

He catches her hand in his, and holds it tightly before bringing it to his lips and pressing a kiss to the ridges of her knuckles. Their hands are connected for an infinity of seconds, then

they let go.

She is about to turn around, when he calls out, like a thought has just occurred to him.

"How did you do it? How did you stop reaching?"

Clara thinks a moment, then smiles. "I found you anyways."

Then she turns, and begins to walk toward the door. Behind her, she can hear him laugh lightly, and then a whispered "Geronimo"

and when she looks back

he is gone.

_____

 

"You've almost finished," he says.

Clara looks at him across the gap between their armchairs. "Pardon?"

"Your book," the Twelfth Doctor gestures pointedly. "It's almost done."

"Yes. Almost. And yours?" she asks conversationally.

He shrugs. "Haven't decided where to start."

Clara looks back down at the paperback volume in her hands. Then she meets his eyes. "Why do you read so much?"

"I like to know things," he says without hesitation; and Clara is about to protest that the books he reads are about things that aren't even real and never will be, when she realizes that perhaps that's the point.

He looks at her curiously, tilting his head. "You're being different again," he observes, and Clara shifts under his gaze.

"Am I?"

"Yes." The Doctor watches her a moment longer, then smiles almost reluctantly. "Why do I feel as though things have changed all over again?

"When don't they?" Clara shoots back with a small grin, not realizing the truth in her words until they are spoken.

He seems to debate how to respond before nodding to the book she holds. "Read to me," he says.

He has not asked her that before (and maybe things really have changed, after all).

Clara rises from her chair and sits beside him. The Doctor moves over to make more room for her, and she lets herself lean into his side. He seems surprised at the close contact, but after a moment, he relaxes against her.

Running a finger over her marked page, Clara locates her spot and starts reading. " _"I wanted to explain that i am constantly overestimating and underestimating the human race - that rarely do i ever simply estimate it. I wanted to ask how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and stories so damning and brilliant."_ "

And she thinks of ghosts and fairytales and mixes of the two; and how loving and living are not mutually exclusive; and of the old and young man who can never quite hide the light in his big, sad eyes

" _"A last note from your narrator,"_ " Clara reads, " _"I am haunted by humans."_ "

She glances at the Doctor beside her. _Well,_ she thinks, _it's half right._

She nestles into the Doctor's side, and he presses a kiss to the top of her head. The dimly lit library looms around them, just Clara and the Doctor, and she doesn't think she's felt this real in quite a long time. And yes, thinks Clara, this will do.

This will do.

**Author's Note:**

> Works read by Clara + Twelve are: 'Never Let Me Go' by Kazuo Ishiguro, 'In A Rose Garden' (Poem) by John Bennett, and 'The Book Thief' by Markus Zuzak. 11.6k.


End file.
